


Blackbird

by gaudylaire



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Whump, and it's pretty dark, this is my first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:39:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8002246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaudylaire/pseuds/gaudylaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John never sits in the other chair. He sits in his own, looking at it."</p><p>In which John wishes he could fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackbird

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever published and it turned out to be...this. Whump. Apparently this has been plaguing me for some time and wanted out, so. Here we are. 
> 
> Title and lyrics taken from the Beatles' song of the same name. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave constructive criticism, always appreciated.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_  
_All your life_  
_You were only waiting for this moment to arise_

 ***

“He’s my friend.”

That was the last time John Watson ever saw Sherlock Holmes.

 ***

 

John never sits in the other chair. He sits in his own, looking at it. He tries to match the dips and shape of the cold, worn leather to the curves of its owner’s body, acutely aware that he has corrupted any possible data by sitting in it himself, just once. The night of the fall.

He’d come home to Baker Street and stood in the doorway to the living room staring at it for what felt like hours. Eventually he’d moved, lowering himself into the chair slowly, sitting carefully, placing his palms on his knees, even, straight-backed. After a while he’d tried tucking his knees up, putting his feet on the seat. He’d found it uncomfortable; that he didn’t quite fit. He’d thought of the person who did fit here, who folded his long limbs gracefully until he was cocooned by the leather and John had felt his throat constrict. He’d sat, hunched in the chair, his face wet with hot tears. He’d moved at dawn.

Now he sits in his own chair, watching the dust motes dance in a weak beam of sunlight. He can feel the carpet underneath his bare feet and thinks about nothing in particular. He contemplates getting up, maybe to make tea.

He doesn’t move.

As though through a thick fog, he hears the front door close and recognises the sound as Mrs Hudson leaving for her Sunday walk. He realises it must be morning, early morning, and wonders how long he’s been sitting here. The noise of the door has become his clock, while his watch sits unworn on his bedside table. Time is no longer his to keep; it slips through his fingers, and he has nowhere to be.

A sudden noise brings him half-out of his stupor - a pigeon, landing on the narrow ledge outside the window. It hops about, eventually settling itself so its pink feet are hidden from view under its feathers. John watches it until his eyes droop.

When he awakens some time later, the weak sunlight has faded and the room seems grey. The sky is threatening rain, and the pigeon has gone.

He has a sudden, almost painful desire to fly away, too.

 

***

 

John doesn’t sleep anymore. When he lies in bed, he can hear footsteps downstairs. Quiet, barefoot footsteps that pad around the kitchen table, and sometimes he hears a soft clinking, as though of delicate glass. So he comes downstairs, and listens to his own quiet, barefoot footsteps and the soft clinking of china as he makes tea that he rarely drinks.

On these nights (which is most of them), John sits at the kitchen table in his dressing gown, the warm mug clutched in his hands. His mug is kept next to the kettle now; its twin sits alone behind a cupboard door, gathering dust. He stares at the strip of orange light that falls from the streetlight outside and thinks of the stories this table could tell.

The shallow, shiny burn mark from where a blowtorch had once carelessly warped the wood. The faint pink stain from some day-glo takeaway sauce, consistently scrubbed at but never completely faded. The darker patch in the shape of a microscope’s base while the rest of the wood has been slightly bleached by the sun. John is sure there are a thousand other stories, if only someone were able to read them.

On some nights John sits at the table and remembers. Remembers running, chasing, his feet pounding concrete and the burn of his muscles. Remembers trying to think at 100 miles an hour, trying to keep up, keeping up. Remembers how it felt to be terrified, to be exhilarated, to be alive.

On other nights John sits at the table and imagines other things. He thinks of mahogany curls beneath his fingers and slight muscles beneath a thin stretch of blue-veined, alabaster skin. He thinks of buttons straining against a heaving chest and dark eyes like summer storms. He thinks of things he cannot have.

On those nights, John wishes more than ever that he could fly.

 

***

 

It is late on a cold winter’s afternoon when John goes out. He closes the front door softly, turning his back, and steps on to the pavement. Passing people, he dimly realises he is not aware of their features. He sees only dark shapes, wrapped in coats; faces are a colourless blur. He keeps walking.

He passes through the city unnoticed, a quiet man on his quiet way. He walks for perhaps an hour, never stopping. Snow begins to fall, softening the footsteps of London.

He has not planned where to go, but his feet take him there anyway.

John walks through the corridors of the old building, undisturbed. He can smell the chemicals, the odour sunk into the place like the smell of perfume into warm skin. He feels at peace here. He takes the stairs slowly and deliberately, placing his feet flat on the step before lifting them to the next. The sound reverberates around the stairwell, but he sees no-one. Reaching the top, he pushes open the heavy door and steps out.

Here, London is quiet. Sound falls away, and the flurry of thickly-falling snowflakes carpet the rooftop like a blanket. John walks to the edge and stops, his arms at his sides.  


He does not look down. Instead he looks out, and he can see the city stretched out before him, the dome of St Paul’s rising to greet him with its powdery crown. The light has taken on that strange quality that is unique to dark, snowy afternoons: heavy, yellow, almost tangible. The air is still. He blinks, and feels the snow clinging to his lashes.

He steps up onto the ledge and suddenly sees himself as though from below. He stretches one arm out, testing, mirroring a different time, a different figure on a rooftop. It’s not awful, this time. He’s in control now.

John lowers his arm. He becomes aware of his breathing for the first time in a long time, and with a great swell of his chest realises he can fly, now.

He spreads his wings, and steps forward off the ledge.

 

***

 _Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
_Take these sunken eyes and learn to see_  
_All your life_  
_You were only waiting for this moment to be free_


End file.
